Je Suis Fred
Je Suis Fred
Francophobe Fred was lecturing with a cold limp French fry to a few of us malingerers at the newly christened Leatherhedz Pub and Swill. Admittedly, we were deep in our cups, not quite ready to face the music at home, although … a few more flaccid fries with ketchup dripping noodled in our faces, anything would look better.
“They’re ALL terrorists!” he shouted. A fat splotch of ketchup put an exclamation point on Ralph’s Carhartt jacket. Another stain only added to the ‘worn’ look of it, but even so, Ralph rubbed at it as if it were acid eating through to his chest. “Jeez, Fred, watch where you’re shakin that fry! This coat’s American made.”
“The hell, you say.” And for a moment, I thought the invocation of jobs still in this country might swing Fred onto another of his favorite rants, illegal immigration and jobs going overseas. But no, he popped the accused fry into his mouth and said between chews, “A few more boatlads and they’ll ram Sharia Law through. The French won’t know what hit em til it’s too late. Maybe,” he wondered aloud, brandishing another greasy potato stick, “they’ll get the message now.”
Ralph was muttering. He’d poured part of his beer on a napkin and was furiously scrubbing the ketchup stain deeper into cotton grown in Bangladesh and sewn in Mexico by workers who hadn’t yet smuggled themselves north. “I’m getting the message, Fred. Jeez, settle down.”
“It’s about Free Speech, Ralph, can’t you see what’s happening?” Ralph shook his head sadly. “I see this ketchup isn’t coming out, that’s what I see, Fred.” Ralph looked like he’d been shot in the chest, blood oozing above his right breast pocket. Jerry, two stools down, laughed out loud. “He means that cartoon of Muhammed, Ralph. They got a right to make fun at someone’s religion, that’s what he means.” None of us waiting for Last Call were particularly religious.
“Damn right that’s what I mean! They don’t like it, lump it … or leave the country. All of em!” “Or what?” I asked, breaking off from watching Ralph washing his coat with Budweiser.
“Round em up! Send em home where they belong! Why the hell not?”
“Their free speech?” I asked. “Freedom to live where they want?”
Ralph stood up suddenly. Fred drew back as if expecting the worst. “I gotta go,” Ralph blurted. He lurched out of his booth. “I don’t want this to set. Maybe I can still soak it in cold water.”
“Soak yer head too,” Fred called after him, although not loud enough for Ralph to hear. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to call it a night. Facing the music looked like a real good plan. “Wait up, Ralph,” I hollered. “I’m right behind you.” Sometimes freedom isn’t at all what you think.
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